


Tyranny's Kids

by DarthNickels



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Friendship, Gen, Kid Fic, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 07:04:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5119478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthNickels/pseuds/DarthNickels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilhuff is eleven years old, and he was supposed to be going to Carrion to learn how to be a Tarkin Man. Instead, he's been left alone on a giant ship, stranded in the middle of Wild Space with a bunch of spoiled Core World babies. Nothing is fair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tyranny's Kids

Wilhuff’s eyes snapped open, adrenalin running through his veins. This was it, he _could_ feel it. Today was going to be the day he went out to the Carrion, learned what it meant to be a Tarkin. He could defend the family and their interests, he _knew_ he could, and from here on out he would prove—

He sat up in bed, and his enthusiasm vanished. This….was not his room. It was bare, with cold metal walls and only a bunk, a dresser, and a few other sparse furnishings. There was no window, only a small porthole—

Which looked out into an endless sea of stars. He was in _space_! Wilhuff had to bite down on his lip from shouting in delight. He was _not_ supposed to be in space. He had to temper his enthusiasm with realism. This was _not_ good-- was entirely likely he’d been kidnapped. The wealth of the Tarkins was also their curse, something to be safeguarded and watched with care. For generations, the strength of his family had been enough to thwart their rivals. Clearly, the family strength had failed.

Or had it? Wilhuff smiled to himself. Of course—it was just like something out of one of his adventure stories. He’d been taken while he slept; no time for goodbyes when he was headed to the Carrion. Obviously _this_ was the first test.

He swung his legs over the bunk, then paused, frowning. He wasn’t wearing his nightshirt. Instead, he had on a fitted grey coat—well, maybe it was fitted on someone _else_ , but on him it hung loosely, sleeves dangling past his fingertips. The right side was weighed down by a bar with a number of colored squares—an insignia? But for what?

Wilhuff cocked his head, considering, then shrugged. He could sit here all day and never find out. Instead he rolled up his sleeves, carefully tucking them behind his elbows, and leaned over to do with the same with his pants. He tightened the belt to the very last available hole . There was a set of boots tucked neatly beneath his bunk, but they were a lost cause. Someone wanted him wearing a giant grey uniform and barefoot, it seemed— but why? Mother and Father knew best, of course, but usually they were present to explain things to him. So far, Wilhuff was alone.

                The door to the cramped room slid open, and Wilhuff poked his head into a grey, featureless hall. He frowned. It was also empty—the kind of echoing emptiness that reminded him of the family sepulcher in Eriadu City. He felt uneasy, unsettled, and a cold knot of dread formed in his stomach. That wouldn’t do. Tarkin squared his shoulders and raised his chin, as Father had often told him to.

                “Hello!” he called, then immediately regretted it. Hello? _Hello_?! He could do better than that. This wasn’t a social call. He tried again:

                “I’m ready now. Will we arrive at the Carrion soon?”

Silence. Yawning, endless quiet. _I had better not stay here_ , Wilhuff thought, heading down the hallway quickly—but not _running_ , because he wasn’t _scared_. Definitely not. This was a situation that required cold, calculating logic, not childish hysteria. _Clearly,_ he thought to himself _, they are in another part of the ship_.

                He didn’t think too hard about the question of who ‘they’ were.

                The ship proved to be far bigger than Wilhuff anticipated—bigger than he knew a ship could _be_. He cursed his own foolishness as he wandered in the identical iron-grey corridors—he’d somehow become hopelessly lost. He had no way of making his way back to the cabin where he’d awoken.

                “Hello?” he called again, his voice betraying  only the slightest tremble. Mother and Father…wouldn’t have left him _alone_ , would they? He didn’t know how to get the Carrion from the city, much less from space. If this was a test, it may be too hard for him—

                There! Voices, at last! Wilhuff took off at a run, bare feet slapping the cold durasteel floors. He rounded a corridor, sliding to a halt. His heart dropped—these weren’t adults. Instead, he’d found two boys, probably about his age (though maybe a little younger). They were dressed similarly, in uniforms that almost reached their knees and pants rolled up the cuff. Unlike Wilhuff, they both spotted small grey caps as well.

                “Who are you?” he frowned. Tactless, but somehow he didn’t think Mother would care too much in this instance. “What are you doing here?”

                The slightly taller boy, with a wide face and close-cropped hair, puffed out his chest indignantly. “Don’t speak to me that way,” he said, “with your _Rim_ affectation. Don’t you know who I am?”

                Wilhuff rolled his eyes. Fantastic—just what he needed, a soft Core-worlder trying to interfere with what he was supposed to be learning. “Obviously I don’t. Why else do you think I asked?”

                The Core World boy turned red in the face. “My name is Cassio Tagge,” he boasted, “of _TaggeCo_.” 

                Ah. Wilhuff _did_ know of TaggeCo: they had much more muscle than Eriadu Mining and Shipping, and weren’t afraid to throw it around to get what they wanted.

                “Wilhuff Tarkin, of the Eriadu Tarkins,” he announced. He couldn’t pull rank here, but Mother and Father had never taught him to fight with his _rank_ —only his brains and his fists. The boy next to Tagge gasped.

                “Oh! I’m—“ he seemed a little flustered. “Antonio Motti, from the Seswenna—well, you know.” He looked at Wilhuff, decidedly off balance. “I wasn’t aware the Tarkins had a son your age.”

                _My age?_ Wilhuff thought, but let it go. Seswenna was an odd place. They’d never coped with losing their place as system capital. He spread his hands. “Well, they do. Here I am.”

                “--and how _wonderful_ it is that we’ve all been introduced,” Tagge cut in, scowling. “It’s a real pleasure”. His tone made it very clear that he did not, in fact, consider it a pleasure. “Now, where are the ones who abducted me? I demand to be released _immediately_.”

                Wilhuff was taken aback. Was that what had happened to them? It made sense—the three of them were from prominent families (though he was being generous in describing the Mottis that way), around the same age. But…

`               “If this is a kidnapping, where are the kidnappers?” Wilhuff asked, frowning. “They’re not doing a very good job, taking us and then letting us roam their ship. If we’re prisoners, why aren’t we tied up?”

                Tagge flushed. “I don’t know how kidnappers think!” he snapped. “I don’t even know where they are!”

                Wilhuff looked at Motti, who nodded. “I just…woke up here,” he said. “On the _floor_.  I think I would remember being kidnapped, wouldn’t I?”

                “What were you doing beforehand?” Wilhuff pressed. “Try to remember.”

                The three of them shared a moment of silence, one that grew more and more tense with each passing second. No one could quite remember where they’d been—just that they’d woken up here, on this huge, eerie ship in the middle of no-man’s-space.

                “Gentlemen,” Wilhuff broke the silence, trying to mimic the same easy authority his father wielded. “We have been brought here under mysterious circumstances. Our enemies remain unknown. If we want to succeed in returning to our respective homes, we will have to band together—“

                Tagge snorted, rudely. “And what? You want to be in charge?”

                “I am the best suited,” he said, drawing himself upright and looking down his nose at the other boy.

                “Hah! Some Mid-Rim nobody like _you_ —“

                Wilhuff felt he’d heard enough. His fist met Tagge’s face with a satisfying _thwack._ The boy recoiled, shouting, and Wilhuff launched himself into the boy’s chest, taking both of them to the hard floor. For all that he’d been taken by surprise, Tagge did well enough in his attempt to wrestle his way out of Wilhuff’s grasp. Motti was shouting at the both of them, but neither Tarkin nor Tagge paid attention.

                “Say uncle!” Wilhuff shouted, twisting Tagge’s arm behind his back.

                “No! Never!”

                “ _Say it_!” Wilhuff was fairly certain this wasn’t exactly how he was supposed to demand respect from his inferiors, but he’d been _kidnapped_ before he could go to the Carrion, so this would have to do.

                “Fine! Uncle! _Uncle_!” Wilhuff rolled off the other boy, obligingly, and scrambled back to his feet. Tagge sat up on the floor, clutching his eye where he’d been struck. They regarded each other—disheveled, panting hard, their fury melting back into dread regarding their situation.

                “That’s why I should be in charge,” Wilhuff declared, once he’d gotten his breath back. He turned to Motti. “Do you want to try too?” Motti shook his head, frantically.

“Good”.  Wilhuff extended a hand to Tagge. The boy eyed it, warily, for a long moment, before grasping it, allowing himself to be hauled back to his feet.

“I don’t know what’s going on here, but the only way we’ll get out of it is by working together. Under my lead, of course.” Tagge looked sour at that, but he didn’t want another punch to the face so he held his tongue. “Our first course of action—“

Wilhuff was cut off by what sounded like the crackle of a comm system. The three of them froze. Finally, they’d find out what was going on here—just who could abduct three young sons of various wealthy families, dump them in the middle of space in a huge abandoned ship, and leave them in nothing but strange, oversized uniforms? Pirates? _Gangsters_? The three of them waited in breathless anticipation.

“Hello?” a small, Coruscanti-accented voice echoed through the halls. Wilhuff resisted the urge to put his face in his hand. “This is the bridge—um, bridge to kidnappers. Repeat, bridge to kidnappers. My name is Wullf Yularen and I…I, um…” there was a silence, except for the crackle of something happening just off mic. “…and I want to go home now, please!”

Wilhuff released a long, slow breath. He clearly had his work cut out for him.

It only took a minute for the three of them to find a comm station. The setup was unusual—almost totally unfamiliar-- but comms were comms, and the first button Wilhuff tried proved to be the right one.

“Bridge, this is Wilhuff Tarkin,” he said. This seemed easy. He was even sure he was doing everything right—though he’d never hailed the bridge of a starship before. “What is your status?” That was something he’d heard in holodramas before.

There was some confusion on the other end, and then the voice came back. “What do you want? You don’t _sound_ like a kidnapper,” the other boy—Yularen-- said, his voice heavy with suspicion. Wilhuff rolled his eyes.

“Because I’m _not_ ,” he said, exasperated. “There are two others with me. Are you--?”

“I’m alone,” the voice answered quickly. “Two more? Did you get taken as well?” He hesitated for a second. “You should…come up here. So we can get our bearings,” he finished, quickly. Wilhuff considered. That actually sounded like a good idea.

“How?”

“I don’t know. Where are you? I think…there might be a map here—or there should be…no, it wasn’t that button.” There was a sound of something powering up, and a frantic slap of palm against control panel. “I don’t know if I should try anything else…”

Wilhuff sighed. “You’re probably right. Stay there—we’ll come to you.”

* * *

 

The three of them turned out to be pretty adept navigators—eliminating the route Wilhuff had taken, alongside the corridors Tagge and Motti had already explored, only left one feasible option. Prowling through the endless grey maze was still daunting, but much less scary with company. Not that he’d been _scared_ —it was just _scary_. One might _potentially_ be scared. But Wilhuff was _not_.

When they arrived at a turbolift bank Tagge crowed with delight, his ire over having been forced to acquiesce to Takin’s superiority temporarily forgotten. He slapped his cap against his thigh before returning it to his head, jovial. Wilhuff paused—Tagge had a kind of strange familiarity with the clothes, ill-fitting though they were.  The more he thought about it, the more he realized he shared that familiarity—without having investigated, he somehow, instinctively know the location of each hidden flap, fold, and zipper. _Maybe it’s just intuitive_ , he thought, uneasily.

He was shaken from his train of thought when the turbolift doors slid open. The three of them piled in, and Motti openly gasped.

“Look how many floors there are!” he said, in an awed whisper. “This ship is bigger than a whole space station—it must be like a flying city!”

“A ship the size of a city, and no one in it,” Wilhuff mused aloud. The realization was like a bucket of water on their smile, triumphant flame. Surely they hadn’t been kidnapped, or abducted, or whatever had happened, just to be…. _marooned_.

 The doors slid back open to reveal an awe-inspiring scene—banks of computers, all dark screen and empty chairs, set into the floor, with a walkway up to a viewport revealing the inky blackness of space. Naturally, the three of them rushed to the huge transparisteel windows, gazing out over the huge expanse of the ship, which stretched forward into the darkness at least a mile.

“Stars!” Motti exclaimed. Wilhuff secretly agreed.

“I don’t see any planets or stations,” Tagge frowned. “I don’t think we’re anywhere _near_ the Core.” 

“But where could a ship this big just sit in space and not be noticed?” Wilhuff asked. Motti and Tagge looked distinctly uneasy, and Wilhuff couldn’t blame them. The words _Wild Space_ hung between them, unspoken. It wasn’t a part of the Galaxy especially forgiving to the sons of shipping magnates.

They were interrupted by a soft cough from the sunken computer banks. Wullf Yularen had black hair and a long, thin face (though not as thin as Wilhuff’s). He looked unusually dour for someone his age, but that may have been because he was peeved at being overlooked into favor of the viewport.

“Yularen,” Wilhuff said, “I’m Tarkin, this is Motti and Tagge”. He didn’t say _I’m in charge here_ —he didn’t have to. His bearing, plus the bruising on Tagge’s face and redness of his knuckles did the talking for him. “Did you find out anything useful?”

Yularen shook his head. “This ship isn’t like anything my father showed me,” he said. “This interface—I can barely use it. I did find a map, though,” he pulled up a ghostly blue holo of the ship they were on. It was long, shaped like an arrowhead. “We’re up here, on the bridge.” He indicated.

“What’s a ship like this even for?” Motti asked. Yularen hesitated, then made a gesture over the holo. A number of labels sprang up—shield generators, ion cannons, torpedo chutes—

“War,” Wilhuff breathed. “It’s a battleship!”

“But whose?” Yularen asked, the blue light of the holo casting eerie shadows on his face. “There’s nothing like this in any of the sector fleets!”

“None of those questions are important,” Tagge cut in, folding his arms across his chest. “Why haven’t you called for help yet?”

Wilhuff was too chagrinned to reprimand him for his rudeness. Tagge was _right_. He should have thought of it first.

“Communications are fried,” Yularen said, shaking his head. “I can’t access the holonet. I think there might be a problem with the external array, but none of us here could do a spacewalk to find out.”

That was bad news. They were drifting in space, far from any friendly settlement—or any settlement at all—and now they had no way of calling for help. They had no idea if—or even when—the men who’d taken them captive would make themselves known. Tarkin looked between the three of them—just children, really, their faces pale and scared.

He made an executive decision.

“Is there a mess?” he asked, briskly. “If this is a battleship, there must be soldiers. That means food.” Yularen looked at him, with equal parts disbelief and awe, before turning back to the hologram.

“I think…there,” he said. “The closest one is an officers’ mess, though. I’m not sure we could get in. It might be keyed shut.”

Wilhuff raised his chin, defiantly. “Then we will have to make do.”

* * *

 

“Making do” proved to be something of an understatement. First they encountered the very trouble Yularen predicted—the door, emblazoned with “Officer’s Lounge” in clear aurebesh, was closed as tightly as if it had been welded shut. Even the four of them, small fingers sunk into the seam between door and frame, heaving with all their might, couldn’t make it budge. It looked like their mission would be a fruitless endeavor until Motti lost his grip and stumbled backwards, his shoulder catching a sensor pad. The door beeped and slid open obligingly.

“How’d you do that?” Tagge demanded. Motti bit his lip, staring at the door. He removed the cylinder from his right hand pocket and waved it before the door. The sensor beeped once again.

Motti held his cylinder up triumphantly. “This must make me an officer!” he crowed, happily. He puffed out his chest. “You may enter—as my _guests_.”

“We’ve all got one,” Tagge said, pointing to his own shoulder pocket, rolling his eyes. Motti deflated somewhat.

Wilhuff chewed his lower lip. Again, that question— _why?_ Who would want them to have full run of the ship? It just didn’t make any _sense_.

Any further questions he might have had were driven out of his head by the interior of the officer’s lounge. Everywhere else on the ship was cold, grey, austere—but here there were plush carpets on the floors, dark wood paneling, and beautiful sea foam-green marble covered every available surface.

“This is more like it,” Tagge said. He hauled himself up on a fine leather bar stool, resting his elbows on the prohibitively expensive counter. Wilhuff ignored him.

 “Yularen,” he said, “cup your hands and kneel down, like this.” The other boy demonstrated, but seemed surprised when Wilhuff planted his foot squarely in his grasp.

“Don’t _squawk_! Give me a boost!” he snapped, and the boy reluctantly complied. Wilhuff walked across the counter top, opening the glass cabinets and frowning.

“They’re full of drinks,” he said. He removed one bottle—a delicate purple, with a scalloped design at the neck. The seal broke easily, and the bottle hissed and smoked. He took a cautious sniff.

“Ugh!”

“What is it? Is it terrible? I want to smell it!” Yularen whined, back down on the floor. Wilhuff replaced the bottle and shut the cabinet with a slam.

“We don’t have time for you to smell every disgusting thing we find,” he said, clambering down. “We’re trying to _survive_. Anyone who doesn’t look for food won’t eat when we find some”. He glared up at Tagge. “Are you listening to me?”

“No,” the other boy replied, petulantly, “I’m _not_. You’re not the boss of me.”

“I am _so_! Do you need a reminder why?”

“I don’t think you should be the leader just because you hit people!” Motti said, in a high pitched tone that betrayed his nervousness at voicing his dissent. “We live in a Republic; that means _democracy_!”

“There’s no democracy in Wild Space!” Wilhuff shouted back. “It’s the law of the club out here. Only those most fit will rule!”

“I don’t know what that means!” Motti wailed.

“Are you going to cry about it now?” Wilhuff sneered. “Am I going to make you _cry_?”

“That’s not hard to do,” Tagge pushed himself out of his chair, back to the floor. “You Outer Rim types—you want to act like you’re important, but you’re just some nobodies from a backwater spec of a planet no one’s ever even heard of. You think throwing your weight around will make you important, but all you’ll ever be is—“

“Quiet!” Yularen shouted. Tagge and Tarkin both turned on him, and it was hard to say who was more furious. However, in the brief moment of silence before the shouting began in earnest, the four of them heard it— a muffled gasp, then the slap of bare feet against bare starship floor.

There was someone else on the ship!

The four of them barreled out the door, almost becoming trapped in their attempt to pass through it at the same time. Motti was surprisingly fast, taking an early lead, but he started to flag soon enough and Wilhuff overtook him, following the flash of orange fabric and blond hair around the corners like a man possessed. The mysterious fifth boy was much shorter than any of them, and Wilhuff was soon gaining on him. He leaped, recklessly, bringing them both crashing to the ground.

Wilhuff’s prey shrieked like a nexu, twisting and kicking in a futile attempt to free himself. Tagge, Yularen, and Motti caught up, huffing and puffing, and grabbed the boy’s arms so he couldn’t fight anymore. Breathing heavily, Wilhuff scrambled to his feet, taking in the newcomer. He was much younger than any of them, with sandy blond hair and a tan like the workmen he sometimes saw toiling in the Tarkin estate’s gardens. He might have been sweet-looking if he hadn’t managed to sink his teeth into Motti’s hand. Motti shrieked in pain, but to his credit didn’t drop the prisoner—though he did make an appalling show of shaking his wounded hand back and forth, whimpering pathetically.

“Stop this at once!” Wilhuff ordered. The prisoner looked up at him, clearly sulking but still defiant.

“Who are you?” he challenged, taking a step forward.

“Who are _you_?” the boy threw back in his face. Tarkin rolled his eyes.

                “I’m Wilhuff Tarkin,” he said, with all the dignity their pint-sized charged was sorely lacking. “This is Tagge, Motti, and Yularen—what are you sniggering at?”

                The boy bit his lower lip, and his eyes glittered with mirth. “N-nothing,” he managed, barely keeping himself from dissolving into giggles.

                “Is something funny?” Tagge asked, dangerously. He wrenched the boy’s arm and the laughter stop. Instead, their charge turned his fierce expression on the bigger boy.

                “Just your _face_ ,” he retorted. Tagge went scarlet, and Wilhuff could see his fingers digging in to the boy’s arm. “Let me go!” he shouted, twisting against the increased pressure. “I don’t care if you’re bullies, I’ll—“

                “Ease up,” Wilhuff ordered to Tagge, in a tone that would allow no arguments. The other boy looked furious, but complied. He turned back to the prisoner, considering.

“We’re not the ones who kidnapped you,” he said. “We don’t know how we got here either. Tell us your name and we’ll put you down.”

The boy considered for a minute, weighing his options. He cocked his head, almost as if he was listening for something, and after a long moment he acquiesced. “I’m Anakin Skywalker—but pretty much everyone just calls me Ani.”

It was Wilhuff’s turn to snort. “Ani,” he said, with derision, “what kind of name is that?” The boy—Anakin—scowled.

“It’s a regular name! At least I don’t have a stupid offworlder name like _Wilhuff_ —“

“I do _not_ have a ‘stupid offworlder name’—“

“Yes you do! You do! I was going to be polite and not point it out but it’s _true_!” Anakin began to struggle again, fiercely. Wilhuff was tempted to find something to tie him up with and throw him a closet, but a deal was a deal. He motioned, and Motti and Tagge released the much smaller boy—the latter with visible reluctance.

“I’ve never heard of the Skywalkers before,” Yularen mused. “What does your family do?”

Anakin stopped brushing himself off with exaggerated motions, looking puzzled. “Do?”

“You know,” Yularen gestured for a moment, helplessly. “ _do_?”

A veil fell over Anakin’s eyes. “My mom and I work—at a junk shop,” he said, slowly.

“Your mother owns a shop?” Yularen asked, raising his eyebrows. Anakin shook his head.

“ _Watto_ owns the shop—and all the junk. We just work there,” he was much less defiant than before, much less ready to meet their gaze with his own blue stare—Wilhuff knew when someone was being less than honest with him.

“You mean, she works there, and you help sometimes?” Motti asked. Anakin scowled.

“No. I work—“ he cut himself off, suddenly cautious. “I do my part,” he finished, cryptically.

“What about your father?” Yularen asks, curiously. “What does he--?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Anakin interrupted again, harshly. “It’s just me and mom.”

“No uncles?” Wilhuff asked, suspiciously.

“No brothers and sisters?” Tagge chimed in, brow furrowed.

“No _cousins_?” Motti asked, aghast.

Something blazed in Anakin’s eyes. “Just me and my mom,” he snapped. “What do _you_ care?”

Yularen held up his hands. “We don’t,” he said, in a way that said _I do, actually_ , but he could wait until later to do more digging. “This just—doesn’t make any sense. You’re the odd one out.”

And he was. Standing more than a head shorter than any of them, clearly just a _baby_ , and wearing an orange jumpsuit that may have been meant for an ugnaught, he certainly looked different. But that wasn’t all of it—his bearing, the way he talked—none of it matched up with the young scions of prestigious houses.

What their kidnappers wanted with any of them was a mystery, but Anakin most of all.

“What kind of work do you do, in this junk shop?” Wilhuff asked. Anakin seemed to welcome this line of questioning.

“I fix things,” he shrugged. “Sometimes I build stuff, too.”

“You ever fix a comms array?”

“In my sleep!” he boasted.

                “Then why are we still standing here?” Tarkin unfolded his arms with a sharp gesture.  “Let’s go back to the bridge.”

                “You can’t be serious!” Tagge burst out. “He’s just a _kid_!”

                “I’m not a _kid_ , I’m _seven_ ,” Anakin shot back, severely. His eyes blazed, but clearly he relished the challenge, “and I can fix _anything_.”

                Wilhuff shrugged. “We don’t have a better option. Or do you _want_ to be stuck on this ship until we grow old and die?”

                Tagge reluctantly admitted he did not.

* * *

 

                “Well,” Anakin said, a line of grease smudged across his face when he re-emerged from under the comm bank. “There’s good news and bad news.”

                After an initially rocky start (“What is going _on_ here?” Anakin demanded, after a string of what sounded like curses in a harsh language. “Who wired this? A drunk astromech with his pincers welded on backwards?”)  Anakin seemed to be making steady process—or at least, he’d been digging contently in the exposed belly the comms array, punctuating the silence with a few muttered exclamations in what might be “ _Huttese_ , of all things”, as Yularen suspected in a whisper.

                But now he was shaking his head. “Whatever happened to the ship fried the more delicate stuff _but good_ ,” he explained, wiping his hands on his jumpsuit. “I never seen anything like it—but the good news is it looks like auxiliary power is good, life support will hold for a couple of years without me doing anything-- bu—ut…” he drew out the word, rocking on the balls of his heels, “navigation is totally wrecked—it would be too dangerous to try and use these computers to go anywhere—“

                “Well, obviously we weren’t going to try and _fly_ ,” Yularen snorted. Anakin started up at him, with a mixture of disbelief and horror.

                “Why not?”

                “Wha--? Because—“ Yularen waved his arm around, in a helpless gesture. “Because look at this! There’s no way just five people could fly a ship like this! Besides, none of us are pilots—“

                “None of you, maybe,” Anakin said, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m the best pilot in Mos Epsa.”

                “Shut up, you little liar,” Tagge sneered. “You couldn’t see over the dashboard!”

                “It’s true!” Anakin’s cheeks flushed red with rage. “I nearly won the last race I flew in—I would have, too, if—“

                “Skywalker,” Wilhuff cut in, impatiently. “What about the comms?”

                “My name’s Anakin,” the boy replied, raising his chin. “ _Anakin_ Skywalker.”

                Wilhuff resisted the urge to over his face with his hand. “The _comms_ ,” he gritted out, impatiently.

                Anakin’s nose wrinkled, but he sighed and complied. “I did what I could,” he started, “but some things you just can’t rig—we can’t send and receive holotransmissions—“

                “That’s what comms do! If we can’t do that, then we don’t have comms!” Tagge cut in, furiously. Anakin fixed him with an unimpressed look. 

                “ _But_ ,” he went on, pointedly, “we can send a signal—not much, and not very far, but anyone who stops by will know we’re in trouble.”

                “You made a distress beacon?” Yularen asked, skeptical. Anakin shrugged.

                “It wasn’t hard.”

                “You said _anyone_ could pick it up,” Wilhuff pointed out, mind racing. “What does that mean? The Jedi? Outer sectors security? Pirates?”

                 Anakin’s eyes lit up at the mention of _Jedi_ only to dim at the idea of _pirates_. He rubbed the back of his neck, biting his lower lip.

                “Slavers—I mean, _smugglers_ don’t come out to no-man’s-space,” he said, rocking back and forth on his heels once again, but this time with an air on unease. “Navcomp is shot but I did get a look at some old jump logs—we’re past the Outer Rim, and nowhere near Hutt Space. No cargo out here,” he muttered the last thought, almost to himself.

                “Aren’t the Hutts just big slugs? I don’t think we have to worry about them in the first place,” Motti remarked, frowning. Anakin’s nose wrinkled again, but he didn’t reply.

                “You’re taking a risk in assuming that whoever brought us here isn’t worse than whoever might be attracted by a big, expensive ship in distress,” Wilhuff pointed out. “You may just lure in a bunch of scavengers who will strip us bare and leave us floating dead in space.”

                “As opposed to just _regular_ floating in space?” Tagge piped up. He put his hands on his hips. “This squirt is right about this one—“

                “Don’t call me--!”

                “Shut _up_! Like I said, he’s right,” the larger boy grunted, reluctant to side with the brat but willing to give credit where it was due. “Life support and gravity on this ship was meant for thousands of people, so it will probably keep for years with just us using it—but I am _not_ staying here that long. Scavengers would have long range comms—even the worst case would be better than where we are now.”

                Wilhuff folded his arms across his chest. “You think the five of us could fight off a crew of marauding bandits?”

                “We wouldn’t have to _fight_ them,” Yularen piped up, thoughtfully. “Just keep them busy long enough to make a call.”

                “And besides,” Motti added, with a kind of determined optimism, “there might not be pirates at all! We might be rescued by _Jedi_.” His eyes sparkled at the thought.

                Wilhuff released a long, slow breath. None of these boys were his _peers_ , obviously, but he couldn’t deny that they raised good points. He thought to what his mother and father had taught him—that there was a fine line between planning and useless fretting.

                “Very well,” was all he said, but the boy—Anakin—beamed.

* * *

 

                There was nothing to do but wait for the signal to be discovered—fortunately, there was plenty of things for a group of wayward possible-kidnapping victims to get up to while they waited.

                After a prolonged argument over which way the map was oriented, and at least two trips in the wrong direction, the five boys located the general mess. Their footfalls echoed in the huge, empty space, with the ominous silence threatening to swallow up their presence. They hurried past long empty tables set with hundreds of empty chairs, trying too hard not to think about where the occupants where.

                Anakin pushed open the doors to the kitchen, taking in the gleaming chrome surfaces for less than a second before running the shelves. He heaved a sack off the first shelf he could reach, then tore it open and began shoveling handfuls of crumbling grey powder into his mouth.

                “Skywalker!” Wilhuff shouted, genuinely taken aback. “What are you _doing_?”

                Anakin paused, another handful of whatever-it-was just before his open mouth. “’m _hungry_ ,” he mumbled, before returning to gorging himself.

                “But--!” Motti could hardly get the words out, so great was his shock. “But you have to _cook_ that!”

                “Mmmm, no,” Anakin said. “Recognize the label. Usually—“ with some difficulty, he swallowed the last  his mouthful. “Usually, spacers add water, but we don’t know how much we’ve got onboard—can’t waste it.”

                “Can’t waste it?!” Yularen asked, aghast.  “There’s enough water on board for a crew of thousands!”

                This hadn’t occurred to Anakin. He paused, turning the idea over in his head, before rejecting it again.

                “Still. Water is water. No good getting _too_ sure of ourselves.”

                Wilhuff arched an eyebrow. The younger boy, who had thus far proven himself the most competent of the bunch, was now intent cramming his mouth full of dry powdered eggs so fast he nearly choked. The little fool was a mystery.

                “You can’t eat it like that!” Motti was still insisting. “You have to cook it first!”

                Skywalker rolled his eyes, then gestured to the rows of shelves around him. “Fine,” he said. “Cook.”

                “You mean _me_?”

                “You’re the one who wants to so bad.”

                “But—I’m not _allowed_ to touch the stove! Only servants do cooking.”

                Anakin looked at Motti as if he’d grown a second head. “Not allowed?” he repeated, dumbfounded. “You mean—you make other people cook for you?”

                “I don’t make them! They just— _do_ ,” Motti squirmed under the intensity of Skywalker’s pointed stare.

                “It’s their station in life,” Wilhuff chimed in, feeling unusually charitable. “They serve their betters.”

                “What makes you better than them?” Anakin asked, confusion quickly turning to anger.

                “The law of the jungle,” Wilhuff fixed the younger boy with his best impression of his father’s icy glare, but Skywalker didn’t back down.

                “We told you!” Motti said, “ _no one knows what that means_ —“

                They were interrupted by an ear-splitting _clang_. Tagge, apparently bored with their conversation, had managed to scale one of the shelves and was no throwing aside metal containers.

                “Be careful!” Yularen yelped, dodging a mixing bowl. Tagge ignored him, throwing out a few more tins with reckless abandon, before crowing with delight.

                “I knew it!” he shouted, pleased with himself. “This is where mother hides the sweets at my house, too!”

                Immediately, he was beset by the other four boys , who rushed to the base of his shelf, clamoring for him to share.

                Under other circumstances, the dinner onboard the empty ship would have gotten any of the prisoners in very serious trouble. Tagge seemed to have a kind of sixth sense for sweet things, and with enough orders and threats from Tarkin he reluctantly agreed to share. The plates were too high up for any of them to reach, so they ate off dull grey trays instead. The haul was divided evenly, with Skywalker insisting on carefully splitting the pastries into halves or thirds when they didn’t divide evenly among the five of them.

                The meal began with boisterous enthusiasm—Skywalker’s eyes flew open at his first bite, and he made a muffled sound of ecstasy.

                “This is _good_!” he exclaimed, around a mouth of food.

                “Of course it is,” Tagge scoffed, but Wilhuff narrowed his eyes.

                “Haven’t you ever had puff cakes before?” he asked, suspiciously. Skywalker froze, realizing his slip, and then slowly shook his head. But Wilhuff’s next line of questioning was drowned out by the outrage of the other three boys, demanding to know how Skywalker had been so _deprived_ his whole life. He dodged their questions with a kind of false calmness, while Wilhuff turned the facts over in his mind. The odd one out: not the same age, not from a prominent Galactic family—a _laborer_ , by his own admission, from a backwater planet. His command of Huttese made it likely that he had some kind of unsavory connections; no one spoke that language for any purpose other than crime.

                In short, he was the only one of their group who was truly _interesting_.

                Yularen had dutifully uncovered silverware, but it was soon forgotten as the boys dug into their treasure with bare hands. Motti laughed at Skywalker for the ring of pale of blue residue around his mouth, but his laughter turned to outrage as he discovered Tagge had been brazenly pilfering his sugared mujas.

                As the meal wore on the raucousness faded away and the five of them fell into a comfortable silence, eating and thinking on the day they’d had. The lights were still harsh, and the durasteel planes of the ship still cold and unforgiving, but Wilhuff didn’t feel the same foreboding he had just a few hours ago. He thought, taking a covert look around the faces of his little band, that this must be what it was like to go to school with non-Tarkins, children not destined for taking up the burden of the family’s destiny.

                He found it somewhat enjoyable.

                Wilhuff stamped down hard on the treacherous thought. Give up the promise of his blood for these idiots? Hardly.

The thought was undercut slightly by the uncooperative smile that flitted across his face all the same.

* * *

 

                Once the meal was finished, and their trays haphazardly thrown in the sink (at Skywalker’s insistence), the newly formed crew decided to establish a base of operations—and perhaps a place to sleep.

                “I woke up in a bedroom,” Wilhuff said, frowning. “But there was just one bunk…”

                “Not fair! I was left on the _floor_ ,” Motti groused, but was instantly hushed by the other boys.

                “We could retrace our steps back there,” Tagge suggested. “It there’s probably a bank of rooms up there, and it’s not far from where we were, either—probably best to stick to areas we’ve already mapped out, for the night cycle at least.”

                “It’s just the night cycle, not the actual night,” Wilhuff replied, rolling his eyes. “There’s nothing on the ship that’s lying in wait to _get us_.”

                “That we know of,” Tagge shot back under his breath.

                “No, there’s not,” Wilhuff said, firmly, but Tagge was content to sulk to himself, having gotten his two credits in.

                “I think I saw a barracks-style area when we were looking at the map to get here,”Yularen said, thoughtfully. “That might be where we want to go next. It would be a good place to settle in and plan ahead—or at the very least, there may be a change of clothes somewhere.” He wriggled his bare toes, meaningfully.  “It was only two levels down from here.”

                “It’s not a bad idea,” Wilhuff said, thoughtfully. “And no one else has any other ideas—Skywalker, what about you? Where did you wake up?”

                The question caught the younger boy off-guard, just like Wilhuff had planned. He paled, and for a fraction of a second his eyes went wide with fear. He swallowed, and answered with feigned casualness: “Uh…nowhere. Just a closet.”

                Unexpected, certainly, and _most_ interesting. Wilhuff let it slide—for the moment.

                “Then it’s settled,” he said. “We make for the barracks.”

                The rooms they were looking for turned out to be _three_ floors down, and not two—but it only took a minimal amount of bickering to get the small crew set back in the right direction. The found the beds were arranged four to a room (“Bunkbeds!” Motti exclaimed, excitedly) with a communal ‘fresher at the end of the hall. The rooms themselves were disappointingly bare, the shelving units turned up nothing but strange sets of white plastisteel armor.

                “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” Yularen said, holding up one of the helmets and looking into the eye sockets. He grimaced in an approximation of the frozen expression of the face shield, then tossed it aside.

                Tarkin slipped one of the gauntlets onto his arm, but it was both too long and too wide. “This ship was made for an entire army,” he said, sliding the armor off and discarding it. “Where are they?”

                No one answered him. It was the first time he’d brought up the question aloud.

                “Maybe this ship hadn’t gotten a chance to be used yet,” Motti ventured, “I mean—everything here seems brand new…”

                “Maybe it got sucked into a wormhole, and it’s from some kind of alternate dimension,” Yularen suggested. The four of them stared at him. “What? It would explain why all the tech is so strange and hard to use!”

                “It’s not a ship from another dimension, don’t be stupid,” Wilhuff said, rolling his eyes. “Forget I said anything. You three go take the room across the hall. Skywalker and I will bunk here for the night.”     

                “There’s enough space for each of us to have our own room,” Tagge said, defiantly.

                “We can’t split up _all_ the way,” Wilhuff replied, meeting his glare. “We have no idea when the kidnappers will come back.”

                Even Tagge had to admit that was a good point, and the three of them filed out, Motti talking excitedly about _sleepovers_ and _ghost stories_.

                There was silence in the shared room. Skyalker picked at the edge of his sleeve, awkwardly, before climbing up the ladder to the top bunk.

                “We’ll get up once the day-cycle starts,” he said. “I’m pretty tired, so, um…goodnight, I guess.”

                Wilhuff nodded in acknowledgement. He was tired too—he had a lot to think over before he could get at the mystery that was Anakin Skywalker. But Mother and Father had taught him patience, and he could wait.

                Barely fifteen minutes had passed before Wilhuff heard it—the characteristic intake of breath, followed by barely-muffled sniff.

                “Skywalker,” he asked, crossly. “Are you _crying_?”

                “No!” the boy answered, reflexively, but he wasn’t able to hide the thickness of his voice. “I—I just—“

                Wilhuff rubbed his temples, vexed, and hit the lights. He climbed up the ladder, thinking _I can’t believe I’m actually doing this_ , and settled at the end of Skywalker’s bunk. Skywalker himself drew his legs up, almost to his chest, and pressed into the corner.

                “Well?” Wilhuff asked, impatiently. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

                “No,” Skywalker wrinkled his nose. “You—“ he closed his hand into a fist. “You wouldn’t understand.”

                “I’m not a fool,” Wilhuff said, crossing his arms. “And I know the minute I go back down you’ll just start blubbering again—“

                “Hey--!”

                “--and I won’t get any sleep,” he finished, determinedly. “Spit it out.”

                Skywalker looked down, biting his lip. He mumbled something under his breath, just too low to hear.

                “Skywalker—“

                “I’m worried about my mom, alright?” he burst out. “She— she doesn’t know where I am— _I_ don’t know where I am—and there might be real trouble if Watto…if I don’t come in to work tomorrow.” He looked up, his eyes bright with tears. “And she’ll be _worried_.”

                The words brought something to life in Wilhuff, a twisting in his gut he hadn’t noticed until now. Did his parents know he was gone? Would Mother and Father have any way of knowing what had happened to him? Would he ever see them—

                Useless thoughts. So what if mother and father didn’t know where he was? He’d find his way back soon enough, and they would be proud of him for not acting like a _child_ while they were separated. This is what came from talking to _babies_.

                “So what?” he said aloud. “What do you care if someone else worries? That’s not something you can stop. You should focus on taking care of yourself right now. The danger is right here.”

                Skywalker was shocked out of his tears. He stared up at Wilhuff, with horror that soon turned to rage. “You don’t _get it_!” he shouted, then turned and threw his pillow at the older boy’s face. Wilhuff snatched the offending missile out of the air, seething, and swing wide, but Skywalker grabbed it and instituted a fierce tug-of-war.

                “How can you be so selfish?” he shouted. “She’s my _mom_! Don’t you have a mom? Don’t you care what happens to her?”

                “Of course I do!” Wilhuff shouted back. Skywalker’s words hit a nerve, and he smarted under the unexpected blow. “But I’m not going to cry like a _baby_ , because I know that nothing’s going to happen to her! Adults don’t get in trouble when their children don’t work!”

                “Maybe for _you_ ,” Skywalker replied, with a profound bitterness, “but not when you’re a _slave_.”

                Wilhuff’s mouth fell open, and Skywalker’s eyes went wide in horror of his accidental admission. “I…” he started, slowly. “I mean—“

                “You’re a slave?” Wilhuff asked, incredulous. “But—“ Skywalker was impetuous, rude, and _annoying_ , but he wasn’t dull or stupid like father had told him the Hutts’ slaves were.

                “—you don’t seem like one,” he finished, lamely.

                This didn’t cheer Skywalker up at all. His red rimmed eyes blazed. “Oh yeah?” he said, scrubbing the last of his tears away with the back of his hand. “What _should_ I seem like? Do you think—“ he paused, hiccupping, “You must think you’re better than me now, huh?”

                “No,” Wilhuff answered, and he surprised by how genuinely he meant it. It wasn’t the order of things. Father wouldn’t have approved.

                But Father wasn’t here right now. There was room for improvisation.

                “I was just—surprised,” he went on, cautiously. “Is that how you came to live on Tatooine?”

                Skywalker snorted. “No one lives there if they have a choice,” he said, with that same resigned bitterness. “Mom was bought by Gardulla the Hutt when I was just a baby—but Watto won us in a bet.”

                It all made sense now. His familiarity with the movements of Outer Rim criminals, command of Huttese, and skill with machinery were all a result of his upbringing. Wilhuff looked over Skywalker, quickly reassessing the boy in his head. He was young and brash and a little on the small side, but he’d survived a childhood among the Hutts and the worst the Galaxy had to offer—he was clearly a worthy ally.

                “I’ll keep your secret,” he said, finally. Skywalker clearly hadn’t expected that. He cocked his head to the side, eyeing the older boy warily.

                “How come?” he asked, suspiciously. “You’re not—I mean, you just don’t seem like a very nice person.”

                Ugh. _Children_. Wilhuff pursed his lips. “ _Nice_ doesn’t have anything to do with it!” he snapped. “You’re clearly the most capable of all five of us. You have skills that even I don’t have—and you’re not nearly as stupid as Motti, or insufferable like Tagge. If we’re going to get out of this, we’re going to have to work together. _You_ are the most worthy ally I have on this ship.”

                “Wow,” Skywalker blinked. “You really aren’t very nice.” He considered Wilhuff’s words for a moment. “But I guess that’s just your way. I’m sorry I thought the worst of you,” he said, holding out his hand, “and I’m sorry I said you had a stupid off-worlder name. Can we be friends?”

                “Allies,” Wilhuff said, gritting his teeth, but took the boy’s hand and shook it anyways.

                “Alright, whatever,” Skywalker replied, rolling his eyes. “Can I call you Will, then?”

                “What?” Wilhuff spluttered. “No! Absolutely not!”

                “Why?” Skywalker asked, with an irritating sincerity.

                “Because that’s not my name. My name is _Wilhuff_ Tarkin. I am named for—“

                He never got to finish. The door burst open and both Motti and Yularen tumbled through, shouting incoherently. Tagge was a half-step behind them, laughing evilly.

                “Come on, you big babies!” he said, “Get back here! Don’t be fraidy-kits!”

                 “No way,” Motti said, shaking his head desperately. “I’m not going back in there with _you_! Can we stay here?” he said, looking up at Skywalker and Tarkin with imploring eyes.

                “No!” Wilhuff shot back, at the same moment Skywalker said “Of course!” They turned to look at one another, neither ready to back down.

                “What happened?” Skywalker asked, breaking his gaze first. “What’s wrong with your room?”

                “Nothing’s wrong with it,” Tagge said, rolling his eyes. “These babies said they wanted to hear a ghost story, but I guess they couldn’t handle it.”

                “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Wilhuff said, folding his arms across his chest. “Go back to your room.”

                “He said—“ Yularen looked a little pale—“he said that out here, in Wild Space, there’s a ship called the Gorcrow with a cursed crew that drifts aimlessly through the stars, looking for stranded vessels to board so they can eat them to prolong their—“

                “That’s obviously not true,” Wilhuff said, rolling his eyes.

                “Yeah,” Skywalker agreed, “most ships out here are just pirates who want to kill stranded spacers for normal reasons. You do get a few weird deep space monsters this far out—“

                “Skywalker--!”

                “It’s true! I heard it from the smuggler in the cantina! Great big flocks of mynocks that can survive the freezing vacuum, they attach onto your ship and drain all the power so you’re just drifting, and then they sneak inside the ship and hide in dark places and—“

                Motti grew paler and paler as Anakin rambled on, looking as though he was about to faint in terror. He was so enraptured by Anakin’s story that he didn’t notice Tagge sneaking up on him.

                “Boo!” Tagge grabbed Motti around the ribs, and Motti shrieked in terror, flailing wildly.

                “That’s enough,” Wilhuff said, sharply. “Tagge, leave him alone. They’re going to be even more annoying if you don’t stop winding them up!”

                “Hey!” Yularen started, but Wilhuff cut him off: “Go back to your room and go to _sleep_ ,” he ordered. Motti shook his head again.

                “No way! What if there are mynocks? They could have infested it by now!”

                Wilhuff gave Skywalker a look that clearly said _see what you’ve done?_ Skywalker didn’t have the good grace to look ashamed.           

                “Three might not be enough to fight off a mynock,” he said, thoughtfully, “but five definitely is. They can stay here, right?”

                “There’s only four bunks,” Wilhuff pointed out, but Yularen went to the wall and dialed something on the recessed keyboard. Tagge jumped back as a portion of the floor began to move, revealing a hidden bed.

                “Same as the Corsec fleet!” Yularen beamed. Wilhuff pinched the bridge of his nose.

                “ _Fine_ ,” he relented. “But you have to stop whining—in fact, don’t say anything. Just shut up and get into bed--”

                The other three were already ignoring him. Yularen made a break for the other top bunk but Tagge shoved him aside, scaling the ladder and settling at the top with a very self-satisfied grin. Yularen stuck his tongue out at him.

                “Afraid of mynocks,” Tarkin muttered, climbing down the ladder into his own bed. “ _Idiots_.” 

               


End file.
